Blood Will Out
by MizJoely
Summary: Vamp!Lock Sherlolly story pretty similar to The World As We Know It but I figured I'd post it anyway. One-Shot that became a Two-Shot because what's a Vamp!Lock story with no biting and no smexy times? NOTE RATING CHANGE
1. Welcome to the Family

_A/N: OK, so originally I wasn't going to post this since it is incredibly simliar to my story "The World As We Know It" but I decided to put it up as a one shot. Enjoy!_

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**Blood Will Out: A supernatural Sherlolly romance**

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Petite. Pretty. Professional.

Mycroft Holmes and his obsessive use of alliteration when messaging via mobile. Irene Adler rolled her eyes as the car bearing her and the woman she'd acquired for her lord and master – here she bared her fangs in frustrated anger at the thought of calling that supercilious bastard "Master", although she'd done so for the past eighty years – rolled smoothly out of London on its way to the Holmes estate.

She glanced over at the unconscious form of the petite (5'3"), pretty (classic English rose in spite of the wavy auburn-brown hair and brown eyes, but she had that porcelain complexion the Holmes men favored), and professional (pathologist at St. Bart's hospital in London) woman she'd so recently 'acquired'.

The third requirement implied a fourth, one that Mycroft had left unstated because he expected her to understand its necessity without being told. Professional equaled intelligent, and above all, the woman chosen by Mycroft for his younger brother's 100th birthday had to be intelligent or else he'd use her up and discard her within days and she, Irene, would be forced to start the entire boring process over again.

Professional. A medical professional, in this case.

"Dr. Molly Hooper, I almost envy you the life you are about to embark on," Irene murmured with another flash of her fangs, this time in an anticipatory smile. She ran her finger down the other woman's cheek and throat, pausing on her pulse point, feeling the steady beat of her heart beneath her skin. So fragile, these humans; so easily overpowered both physically and mentally. It had taken a single moment of eye contact and Molly Hooper had become nothing more than a puppet dancing to Irene's will.

Well. Temporarily. Once she entered the Holmes estate she would become Mycroft's puppet even if Irene wanted to keep her for herself. Which she did, but only because the ability to do so meant she would have finally found a way to overpower the man – vampire – who had Turned her and still held an incredible amount of power over her.

It could happen; masters got old and sloppy, lost their touch, spread themselves too thin, but not, unfortunately, Mycroft Holmes. He was still in his prime, barely 115 years old himself, and one thing the Holmes family was not and had never been was sloppy.

Yes, she'd had her moment of rebellion when she'd sided with the Moriarty clan during their clashes with the Holmeses a decade ago, but that had been brief and ultimately worked to Mycroft's advantage. It gave him a hold over his younger brother that he'd been seeking ever since the pair of them had been Turned by their father during the reign of Queen Victoria.

A pity their mother had sided with them when the time came to put Robert Vernet Holmes down. Oh, he hadn't become sloppy or senile, had been barely 500 years old when his sons turned on him, but he'd certainly grown arrogant, too certain of his own power and control to bother with more than the most rudimentary of protections against the possibility of rebellion from his offspring.

It was certainly a lesson learned by both Mycroft and Sherlock. They would never fall prey to such arrogance; vampires had long lives and even longer memories. They would never forget and never allow themselves – or each other – any such weakness.

Robert had grown lax and paid the price. Irene had arrogantly assumed she could take down the brothers Holmes by allying herself with their family's most implacable and powerful rival clan.

She would never make that mistake again. If she ever wanted to be free to chart her own destiny, she would have to find a way to do it herself. Mycroft had wanted to kill her but Sherlock had coolly argued for – not mercy, not quite, but leniency. Reminding his brother that this moment was bound to come sooner or later, and had actually occurred in such a manner as to be useful to the two of them.

God, she hated him for that. And wanted him even more desperately than she had before. He'd known exactly how she felt when Mycroft relented and allowed her to live, and had made it clear, with simply a cold stare and a cocked eyebrow, that she was no longer welcome in his bed

She doubted he'd welcome the woman she'd acquired for him at Mycroft's behest either, but that was between the brothers. Mycroft had unfortunately been rendered sterile after his conversion, whereas Sherlock was still fertile.

It was up to him to carry on the Holmes family name, to produce an heir, and this woman was going to be the means to that end whether she or Sherlock liked it or not.

Because of course the other, unspecified but highly necessary item on Mycroft's shopping list had been fertility. And Molly Hooper was most definitely fertile. She would be capable of producing baby after baby for the Holmes family if Mycroft deemed it necessary that she do so.

And Sherlock, in spite of his outward appearance of equality in the family hierarchy, was about to discover exactly how uneven a balance it truly was.

Irene would have pitied him, if she wasn't looking forward to the upcoming row with such anticipation.

"Welcome to the family," she murmured to her unconscious prisoner, removing her finger from the other woman's throat and settling herself once again in her own seat in the back of the limo. "Let's hope you're up for it."

**oOo**

Molly blinked, moved her head restlessly, blinked again and came fully to consciousness with no residual pain or confusion. She remembered exactly what had happened to her in such detail that it could only be because she was meant to remember how she'd come to be in this strange house when she knew she'd been at St. Bart's in the path lab, working on the endless paperwork that followed after each and every autopsy she performed.

She'd looked up, and the other woman – the vampire – had been standing silently in the doorway. Their eyes had met, Molly's startled and verging on panic when she realized who and what she was facing, the other woman's cool and appraising and with perhaps just the slightest hint of pity in their blue depths.

Then the mental haze that Molly had heard about but never experienced had fallen over her mind; incipient panic had been smothered along with free will, and she'd found herself rising from her seat, gathering her few belongings and following docilely along in the other woman's wake. All without the vampire uttering a single word.

She'd remained conscious up until taking a seat in the limo that awaited them outside the entrance to Bart's, then...nothing. Nothing until waking up in this sumptuous sitting room or parlor or whatever the posh vampires called rooms filled with antique furniture and gilt-framed paintings on the walls and Persian rugs on the floor and housing impossibly huge marble-clad fireplaces to dispel the chill.

Furthermore, she was waking up, she belatedly realized, no longer in the clothing she'd been wearing before her abduction. Her lab coat, frumpy jumper and rumpled khakis had been replaced by a wine-red sheathe that fit her like a second skin from chest to mid-thigh – she shuddered to think what had happened to her underclothing and could only hope that she'd been hypnotically ordered to change herself. The stockings on her legs felt too smooth and soft to be anything but silk; nothing so declasse as nylon would do in such a setting, and the black pumps on her feet had a high gloss to match their high heels, which she knew she would have trouble managing if she was still completely under her own power.

She still wasn't panicking, and knew in an intellectual way that wasn't allowed to touch on her emotions that it was because the vampire that had taken her wasn't allowing her to do so. She'd read about the vampire ability to blanket a human mind to varying degrees, but had hoped – prayed – never to experience the effects herself.

Well. So much for that. She was firmly under a vampire's control and had only the vaguest idea why any of them might be interested in her. Beyond the obvious, of course. Her blood type was AB+ and some vampires were known to be picky about the flavor of blood they ingested.

Still, kidnappings had become far less common as vampires and humans settled into an uneasy alliance over the past fifty years or so. She'd read about the bad old days before the vampires had eased off on their endless feuds and reached an accord on how to handle the humans they both despised and needed for their survival.

None of which was important at the moment. There were laws supposedly protecting humans from exactly what had just happened to her, but everyone knew the laws were simply a placebo to make humans feel they still retained some control over their destinies. Yes, day to day the human race went on as it always had – loving, fighting, hating, scraping an existence from a world that was so much more complex than most of them had believed possible – but the vampires were in charge and never let anyone forget it.

Molly had certainly been given such a reminder, and wondered if the despair she knew she ought to be feeling would be allowed to surface any time soon, or if she was doomed to this enforced tranquility for the rest of her life.

However long – or short – that might turn out to be.

"You are not here to act as tonight's dinner course, Dr. Hooper."

She turned her head to face that coolly amused, highly aristocratic voice. The man – vampire – who stepped into the circle of discreet lighting around the sofa Molly currently occupied was tall, with light hair worn closely cropped, wearing clothing that probably cost more than Molly's entire wardrobe, including shoes. His eyes were blue, gleaming in the dim lighting the way all vampire eyes did, shining like the eyes of a wolf in the moonlight.

She shivered, feeling some measure of control over herself being returned. Not fully, there was still the sensation of another mind overlying her own, preventing the deeper, more primal emotions of fear and panic and despair to emerge, but she no longer felt that preternatural calm.

"Why am I here, then?" she heard herself ask, and was properly shocked by her own boldness. Just because she wasn't meant to be tonight's main course didn't mean she wasn't being kept for another meal. Her fancy clothing meant nothing; all the great chefs insisted on the importance of presentation, after all.

"You're here because it is my brother's birthday," came the surprising reply. Surprising not because she was apparently going to be gifted to another vampire, but because this one was bothering to explain himself to her at all. "He turns 100 today and it is time for him to meet his family obligations."

"And which 'family obligations' are those, Mycroft?" another voice, deep and honey smooth and rich as cream came from the darkness behind Molly.

She shivered at the sound of that voice, not simply because it was threatening – all vampire voices were threatening on some level – but because it struck a chord somewhere deep inside her, caused her most feminine instincts to sit up and take notice.

All of which translated physically. The skin on the back of her neck prickled, her nipples hardened beneath the expensive fabric wrapped around her body, her knees felt wobbly and her female center responded with a jolt. If she examined her knickers, they would no doubt be soaked through.

Her heart was racing as well, and if the vampires were unaware of her other physiological reactions, they surely heard that sound, attuned as their senses were to the workings of the human cardiovascular system.

She turned her head to look at the newcomer and felt her breath catch in her throat at sight of him. He was tall, not much taller than the other vampire – Mycroft, he'd been called – but leaner, with dark curly hair and intense blue-gray eyes that looked her over with a coolness bordering on icy before meeting those of his brother.

She knew her guess as to his identity was correct even before Mycroft gestured toward her. "Sherlock, allow me to introduce you to Molly Hooper," he said, his own voice as cool and distant as that of his brother. "Your bride."

Oh. Bride. Of course. Molly knew if Mycroft hadn't had a tight lid on her emotions she'd be running screaming from the room right about now.

Vampires could reproduce two ways: via Turning and via the more usual methods. Well, male vampires could do so, anyway. Female vampires were always sterile, unable to become impregnated. But male vampires – some of them – retained human-style fertility. Living sperm in an Undead body, a contradiction science never could reconcile no matter how hard it tried. Sort of like the concept of a Unified Field Theory.

Molly's mind might not be panicking but it certainly was wandering off into unproductive mental back alleys. Another coping mechanism, her own this time rather than something forced on her by the master vampire currently having a staring contest with his younger sibling.

"I have no need of a bride," Sherlock said in response to his brother's announcement, lip curling in a sneer. Just enough to flash some fang.

"On the contrary," Mycroft responded with a sneer of his own. "You owe the clan offspring. It's always been part of the bargain we made when we took power from our father, Sherlock. Just because you've chosen to ignore it, to put it off to the last possible moment, does not mean you can evade it indefinitely. It is your 100th birthday, and it is time for you to fulfill your obligations. With this woman," he added, breaking eye contact just long enough to glance at Molly. Who wished desperately that she could become invisible, especially once Sherlock joined his brother in studying her.

She was no femme fatale, no drop-dead (bad choice of words, that) beauty. She was moderately attractive at most, she knew that about herself, had been in enough pubs and dance clubs to recognize that she wasn't the first woman most men's eyes turned toward. Not enough bosom, no pouty lips or smoky eyes, the going standards for beauty these days. Yes, her figure was trim enough; she had a slender waist and decent hips and a not-enormous bum, but her legs weren't, well, _leggy_ enough, and she couldn't tan to save her life even if she didn't spend most of her days in the basement morgue at St. Bart's.

"Why me?" she found herself blurting out, then blushing furiously as Mycroft smirked and Sherlock's eyebrow raised itself in an inquisitive arch. "I mean – surely there are more attractive women out there, why are you forcing your brother to...settle for someone like me?"

Mycroft's lips curved in what it took her a moment to recognize as a genuine smile. "Sherlock, I believe Irene has chosen splendidly. Take her to your rooms, why don't you. Get to know her better. See if you can deduce the answer to her question."

That last sounded as a definite challenge, one that Sherlock met with an angry scowl. "I have no intentions of taking her anywhere, Mycroft," he ground out. "Nor do I intend to procreate simply to satisfy your thirst for power..."

"It is not a simple matter of power, Sherlock!" Mycroft's voice thundered through the room, causing Molly to wince and press herself deeper into the sofa cushions even though neither vampire was paying the slightest bit of attention to her now. "It is a matter of balancing family obligations with what is best for the people under our power!"

"You mean the human vassals you control? The _slaves_?" Sherlock sounded contemptuous, but just as Molly began to fear that she was being given over to one of the vampire that thought of humans as little better than cattle, he added: "You know how I feel about our treatment of humans, Mycroft. We should retreat from the halls of power and live in the shadows, the way our ancestors did. Allow the humans to rule themselves again."

"I agree." Mycroft's softly spoken words were clearly not what Sherlock had expected to hear, and Molly watched, fascinated, as he showed confusion for the first time since entering her sight. "However, you and I both know that far too many of our brethren do not. The Moriarty clan, for example." Sherlock stiffened at the sound of that name, although it meant nothing to Molly; the intricacies of vampire politics had never interested her, never seemed to directly affect her.

Well, it certainly was affecting her now. She knew there were ancients houses and clans with varying degrees of interconnectedness and rivalries; and apparently the Moriartys weren't friendly to whatever house she'd found herself a 'guest' of.

Or to humanity, she realized as Mycroft continued to speak, his voice softer but no less intense. "Suppose the Holmes family removes itself the way you suggest we do. We relinquish our place on the Council, we cede our properties and protectorates to allies and those we name friends. We return to our 'roots'," he added clearly using the word with disdain. "We move to the ancestral pile in Normandy, gate ourselves off, restrict ourselves to humans who are willing to give us their blood. What happens then, hmm? Tell me, Sherlock, what happens to those we ostracize ourselves from? Do you really think such a weakness – and we both know such actions would be construed as weaknesses – would long go unexploited? That friends and allies wouldn't be corrupted, subverted, or even outright destroyed after we withdrew our protection? Do you honestly believe our enemies would not take advantage of our withdrawal to attack us?"

Whatever objections Sherlock might have raised seemed to have been effectively silenced by his brother's words. Words that raised the hackles on the back of Molly's neck, but not out of any kind of sexual awareness this time. No, this time she clearly heard the threat in Mycroft's voice.

As did Sherlock. With a curt nod, he glanced down at Molly and then back at his brother. Once again a single eyebrow moved upward, and this time the result was a sudden easing on the soothing blanket of calm in which Molly had been wrapped since meeting that woman's eyes in St. Bart's.

A woman who now revealed herself to still be in the room, although she'd remained silent the entire time, silent and hidden in the shadows. She chose that moment to saunter forward to gaze up at Sherlock with a heavy-lidded glance of pure seduction.

Molly hadn't exactly liked her when she kidnapped her from her job; now, she positively hated the other woman, and all because of the relationship she read between the two vampires based on that look. After all, just because a vampire took a human bride didn't mean he gave up any previous relationships. Not that Molly should care, of course. And probably wouldn't once her mind was back under her own control.

She ignored the fact that the only control Mycroft seemed to be exerting was whatever was necessary to keep her from completely freaking out. The only way she would know if that spike of jealousy was due to his machinations...or something purely her.

"Do you object to my choice, Sherlock?" the female vampire asked, her voice as seductive and husky as Molly expected it to be. She felt herself completely ignored as the other woman approached Sherlock, placing her hand on his chest in a possessive gesture. "I can certainly find someone who has more confidence in her own looks, which this one apparently lacks. Someone with a little more fire to her, if you prefer."

"No, thank you," Sherlock replied, his voice sounding cold and distant – although why that should cause Molly's heart to do a little happy-dance, she couldn't say. Couldn't, or wouldn't. "I'm sure you found someone who meets my brother's exacting standards for a brood mare. You've become exceptional at dancing to his bidding ever since your little dalliance with the Moriartys."

She stepped away from him, snatching her hand back with a hiss of fury. Molly watched as it clenched into a fist, and wondered distantly if the female vampire was actually going to strike him.

No. She dropped her fist to her side, easing the fingers apart before turning deliberately to face Mycroft. "Am I excused for the evening...Master?" she added, with a not-quite sneer on her lips. She sounded frustrated, and Molly couldn't help but feel a certain amount of mean-spirited pleasure in the other woman's discomfiture. After all, she'd chosen Molly out of all the other possible candidates in the world, or at least in London, brought her here and literally delivered her into a lifetime of servitude. Being sneered at by Sherlock was the least she deserved.

Mycroft had nodded his consent and the vampire – Irene, Molly supposed she would have to remember the woman's name since it was clear she was part of the household – left without a backward look. If she'd been a cat, her tail would have been twitching and all the fur on her back would have been standing on end.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have intervened when you wanted to kill her," Sherlock said, his voice meditative. Molly felt another shiver run up her back; even with her emotions dampened she was reacting to that deep, mellow sound like a bitch in heat. What would it be like once – if – she were allowed free rein of her reactions?

She felt Sherlock's gaze on her and raised her head to meet his eyes. They were a distant, icy blue-grey, the irises ringed in a darker blue that only served to emphasize their clarity. She felt she could lose herself in that gaze, and hurriedly dropped her eyes again, although she was certain she'd already given everything she felt away.

"Perhaps. Time will tell," was all Mycroft said, his voice holding a measure of humor in it that Molly suspected had more to do with her reactions to his brother than to their discussion of Irene. "Since you've already declined any sort of festivities commemorating your 100th year on Earth, perhaps you'd care to show Doctor Hooper her new home?"

It wasn't a request; there was steel behind those words, steel flashing in his dark blue eyes as he met his brother's angry gaze. Molly darted her own gaze between them, sensing that Sherlock's acquiescence in this matter would seal her own fate.

After a moment, he turned away from his brother with a shrug, then held his hand out to Molly. She placed her own hand in his, quaking a bit as he spoke. "Let her go, Mycroft. I can take her from here."

She felt a slight lifting of her mental blanket as Mycroft transferred his control of her over to his brother. She felt Sherlock's mind settle over hers as smoothly as cream, no jostling or rough edges as the transfer occurred. She wondered once again if her mind would ever be her own again, but all she did was follow obediently as Sherlock tugged at her hand and guided her out of the room.

They paused on the threshold as Mycroft's voice floated after them in the darkness: "And Sherlock, don't try and put it off through some misguided sense of chivalry. This needs to be dealt with immediately."

Sherlock made no response, simply tugged on her hand and lead her out of the room.

**oOo**

They traversed what seemed like miles of darkened, stone-walled corridors and several sets of narrow staircases before finally entering what she assumed to be Sherlock's private suite of rooms. As they did so, just as the door closed behind, them, Molly felt the artificial calm vanish from her mind.

All the panic, fear and disorientation she'd been forced not to feel came flooding back into her mind. Without thinking – virtually incapable of thinking at this point – she wrenched her hand from his loose grasp, spun on her heel and bolted for the now-closed door.

She never saw him move, but suddenly the man – vampire – who had been behind her was in front of her, blocking her desperate grab for the door handle, his hands on her shoulders and an expression of inhuman calm on his pale features.

"Let me go," Molly cried, struggling against his hold.

She may as well have fought against a mountain, tried to force a river from its bed. Sherlock's hands – cold but not as icy as she'd always assumed a vampire's would be – felt like steel cuffs on her biceps, and he didn't so much as budge as she continued to struggle in his grasp.

She sobbed and cursed and fought and finally collapsed limply against his chest. She didn't fight him when he gathered her in his arms, lifting and carrying her as easily as he would a child.

Her eyes shut tight against whatever fresh horror awaited her, Molly was unsurprised to feel herself being carefully laid on what had to be a bed. _His_ bed. She felt his arms slide out from beneath her and tensed, waiting for him to join her, to cover her with his body and do as his brother had essentially ordered him to do.

Have sex with her and get her pregnant.

She cracked her eyes open after a long minute passed, during which she felt his presence nearby but not on the bed as expected.

She peered over to find him standing by the side of the bed, arms crossed as he studied her through hooded eyes. When her eyes met his, he spoke. "I'm not going to attack you – what is your name again?" he asked, eyes flashing with irritation, shining eerily in the meager candlelight. Didn't this place have electricity? It was the 21st century, after all!

"Molly," she finally answered him. Even without the weight of another mind on her own, she found her hysterics had ended – or at least, were temporarily nullified. "Molly Hooper. I'm a –"

"Doctor, a doctor of some sort although I could learn a great deal more about you if my brother hadn't decided to play dress-up with you," Sherlock interrupted her impatiently. He remained standing in the same place, arms crossed over his chest as he peered down at her as impartially as a scientist studying a specimen under a microscope.

That emotional neutrality helped; although she was still tense, although terror and panic still lurked and waited for the merest excuse to rear their ugly heads, for now she found herself as curious about him as he appeared to be about her. "I'm a pathologist," she said after a moment. "At St. Bart's." A spasm crossed her features and she fought back another onslaught of tears. "At least, I was. I don't suppose I'll be..."

"It's doubtful my brother will allow you to retain any ties to your former life," Sherlock said, dismissing her forlorn hopes with his coolly-spoken words. Still, it was probably for the best; why try and fool herself into believing things might someday go back to normal? At least he wasn't lying to her.

She simply swallowed and nodded. "Right. Of course not." Blinking rapidly in order to keep the tears from welling up, she sat up and clasped her hands over her knees. "So what happens next?"

For the first time he looked uncomfortable, as if he wasn't entirely sure how to answer her question. "I said I wouldn't attack you," he said, sounding very hesitant indeed. "I know you don't want this any more than I do, but if we don't get it over with my brother is sure to make both our lives a living hell until we do."

She shivered at the mention of his brother; as cold and clipped as Sherlock was, he didn't terrify her nearly as much as the leader of this particular vampire clan. It was probably as much to do with the sexual attraction that she was feeling toward Sherlock – an attraction she most definitely did _not_ feel for his brother – as anything, but only time would tell.

Time. Hah. It would appear she would have plenty of that in her future, if she wasn't going to be allowed to return to her job. At least she had the consolation of knowing that she wasn't leaving behind any grieving family members; her parents were both dead, she had no siblings and no extended family members, no children (not _yet_, part of her mind felt constrained to point out to her), no husband or boyfriend...hell, come to think of it, she didn't even have any close friends who would miss her!

Something of her reflective thoughts must have shown on her face, because Sherlock abruptly sat on the edge of the bed and peered intently into her eyes. She shrank back, just a little, then did her best to stiffen her spine as she held his gaze.

"You're alone in the world." He stated it as a fact, but she nodded, a bit surprised that he'd read her so well. If she didn't know any better, she might have accused him of actually reading her thoughts. "Interesting. Irene seems to have chosen better than I initially gave her credit for."

The mention of the other woman caused Molly to bristle a bit. "Yes, I know I'm a disappointment in every other way, at least she picked someone no one else would miss," she ground out, then dropped her eyes as tears once again threatened.

Surprisingly, he didn't take offense at her tone; even more surprisingly, he chose to call her out on her self-denigrating words. "Why do you think you're a disappointment? You have no idea what I would look for in a mate, were I given a choice in the matter."

Those last words were spoken with an undercurrent of bitterness Molly recognized all too easily, since she felt exactly the same way. Part of her was still marveling at how easily she was interacting with him, a man (vampire) she should only view with fear and loathing, even as her lips parted and she spoke once again without thinking: "Wouldn't you have picked someone more like Irene? Beautiful and poised and self-confident?"

He blinked at her slowly, a smile stealing across his face as he continued to study her. God, if she'd thought he was gorgeous before, he was positively devastating with his eyes crinkled with amusement. It lightened his entire aspect, made him seem much more human and approachable. "Dr. Hooper, you do realize you've just described yourself, don't you?"

She stared at him, certain he was toying with her in spite of the god humor in his voice. "You can't really mean that."

He leaned forward, his gaze even more intense than it had been before. "I never say anything I don't mean, Dr. Hooper," he replied, his voice just as intense – nearly hypnotic – as his eyes, which seemed to have settled into a darker blue-grey as he spoke.

"Molly," she whispered in response as she felt a shiver of desire run up her spine. He wasn't controlling her at all; there was no sense of another mind overlaying hers as there had been earlier, which meant all her reactions now were strictly her own. Which further meant that all the things she'd felt before – the attraction, the jealousy – had also been her own emotions, nothing imposed on her from the outside, else they've have vanished as swiftly as her calm had once Sherlock released his hold on her mind.

She wanted him, plain and simple, was responding to him on a very primal level that had nothing to do with intellect. Whether that deep-seated desire would last beyond tonight was a puzzle to be solved another day; right now, all she wanted to do was give in to what her body was telling her. Even though that also meant giving in to the life that had suddenly been forced on her.

A worry for tomorrow, when the harsh realities had time to set in. She wet her lips and leaned forward just the slightest bit, knowing her movement to be an invitation, heart pounding as she waited for Sherlock's reaction.

**oOo**

She wanted him. He'd sensed it from the moment their eyes first met, even though the intolerable situation should have overridden any desire she might have felt. Especially once Mycroft ceded control of her to him and he allowed her her mental freedom. Yes, she'd panicked and lashed out but it hadn't required any further mental manipulation to calm her down again. A point in her favor, that; not every human that found themselves suddenly plucked out of their lives and forced into such a situation could cope nearly as well as Molly had.

Actually she had a lot of points in her favor, he had to admit. His words to her hadn't been empty flattery; she truly was beautiful, poised and self-confident. Perhaps not in the obvious, trite ways women like Irene Adler were; she didn't seem the type to use her looks as a weapon, to manipulate people into doing as she wished them to do. No, her beauty was as much in her spirit as her outward appearance, her poise evident in the way in which she'd handled herself after being released from all mental control, and her self-confidence was clear in the way she spoke of her profession – previous profession, he reminded himself with a pang. Molly Hooper would no longer work as a pathologist at St. Bart's hospital, but he would find some way for her to use her skills.

She wasn't the type of woman who would be content simply spawning child after child and spending her days caring for them, noble as such a calling was. She would need intellectual stimulation and he was exactly the mate to provide her with such. Just as she, he realized as she leaned forward, lips slightly parted in an obvious invitation, was exactly the mate to keep him from lapsing into boredom outside the bedroom.

His brother, he decided as he leaned forward to capture his new bride's lips with his own, had chosen well.


	2. A Birthday to Remember

It was crazy – mad in the purest sense of the word. Molly's entire life had been wrenched away from her, turned upside down, and yet all she wanted at the moment was for Sherlock to keep kissing her. Yes, this was something they were both being forced into doing, but frankly her life had been such a boring routine before today – and Sherlock was so incredibly sexy and different to what she'd expected from a vampire – that she could find it in her heart to temporarily put aside how this moment had come to pass, and simply focus on the moment itself. The way his lips felt, so soft and warm against hers. The sensation of his tongue gliding against hers. The sharp prick of his fangs as they slid further from their sheathes, drawing tiny drops of blood from her tongue that he sucked eagerly into his own mouth. The way he moaned softly as he pulled her closer to his body, cooler than her own yet rapidly gaining heat from a combination of shared contact and sexual desire.

He pressed her down on the bed, covering her smaller form with his, the warmth of his arousal blatant even through their clothing. Without speaking, Sherlock slid his hand along the back of her dress, tugging on the zipper as his tongue continued to plunder her mouth. Molly fumbled the buttons to his crisp white dress shirt, but managed to undo them all while he divested her of her borrowed finery.

"You'll only wear this dress for me in the future," Sherlock whispered in her ear, as if divining her thoughts. He tossed it carelessly to the floor as Molly worked his platinum cuff links free. "Promise me, Molly. Only for me."

"I promise," she whispered in return, distracted by the problem of what to do with the cuff links now that she'd removed them. Sherlock solved that problem by taking them from her and dropping them on the nightstand as he rose to his knees. She watched, entranced, as he finished removing the remainder of his clothing, while she remained clad only in a pair of the sheerest black knickers she'd ever worn.

There was a distinct damp spot on those knickers as well, she was embarrassed to noticed, but judging by the heat in Sherlock's eyes, he approved.

She yelped in surprise as he darted forward and lowered his mouth to that damp patch and what lay beneath it. Molly felt his tongue gliding along the sheer fabric. She gasped and found the courage to tangle her fingers in his glorious dark curls, reveling in the sensation, and in the guttural moan her tugs were dragging out of him as he continued to mouth her barely-covered pussy. She wiggled beneath him, giving a moan of her own as he languorously teased her clit and rubbed his thumbs along the edges of the knickers, never quite putting them where she most wanted them to be.

Just as she was about to beg him for the pressure she needed, he lifted his mouth away from her, grabbed the sheer fabric of her knickers and ripped them apart, leaving nothing but black scraps while she watched, open-mouthed. He hadn't even looked as if he was putting any real effort into it, and although the fabric was delicate, she knew what kind of strength it took to shred the elastic like that. It should have frightened her, that deliberate demonstration of power, but all it did was turn her on even more.

His nostrils flared as he knelt over her, and Molly knew he could scent her arousal as easily as if still had his face buried between her thighs. He licked his lips, and she watched, fascinated, as his fangs once again extended into feeding mode. He remained kneeling above her, allowing her to drink in her fill of his pale, sculpted form, although she found it hard to tear her eyes away from the proud erection he was now sporting. It was a mouthwatering sight, and she wanted nothing more than to scramble to her knees and take him deep inside her mouth.

Sherlock chuckled, and her eyes flew up to meet his, cheeks reddening as she realized he knew exactly what she'd been thinking. But when she made to raise herself up onto her elbows, he shook his head. "Not yet, Molly," he said, his voice husky and just the slightest bit strained. He spoke as clearly with his fangs extended as he did when they were fully sheathed; the medical professional in her noted that with interest – she'd never heard a vampire speaking with fangs extended and knew of no one else who had, either – but the extremely turned on woman was more interested in what he planned to do to her next.

That question was answered as Sherlock moved, a blur of motion Molly could barely follow; one minute he was kneeling above her, the next he was again between her legs, his mouth on her pussy and his tongue thrusting into her in an urgent rhythm that soon had her keening his name. If his fangs were piercing her flesh she was too lost in pleasure to notice, especially after he pressed his thumb against her throbbing clit, stroking it in a languorous counterpoint to his tongue's insistent pressure.

Then, just as she felt herself on the cusp of orgasm, he pulled away. She let out an incoherent moan of protest that turned to a gasp as he turned his head and sank his fangs deep into her femoral artery, only inches away from where his mouth had just been.

The orgasm she'd been straining toward burst over her in a white-hot sheet of ecstasy. Although she wasn't normally a screamer, her throat was raw by the time she came back to herself – wait, had she passed out? She looked around vaguely as she realized Sherlock was no longer between her legs, wondering if her vocal enthusiasm had driven him away; vampires were known to have sensitive hearing, although no one had been able to find the mythical frequency that would supposedly drive them away. Before she could do more than sit up, he reappeared, opening and closing the door behind him and making his way to the bed with a large glass of what looked like orange juice in his hand.

He made her drink the entire thing; when she tried to protest that her throat would be fine (blushing in embarrassment at how loud she'd been), he gave her a scowl and replied, "It isn't just your throat I'm concerned about, Molly, it's the amount of blood I drank." His scowl deepened, but she could tell it was self-directed, and obediently downed the remainder of the juice. "I should have stopped sooner, but my God, you tasted so good, I didn't want to stop, and when you orgasmed…" He fell silent and looked at her with an expression of awe. "It was…incredible."

"Even more incredible being on the receiving end," Molly replied, smiling as she handed the empty glass to him. Sherlock took it, placed it on the side table, and immediately covered her body with his.

"Well, then," he murmured, his voice husky with desire, "let's see if we can duplicate the results without me taking blood from you, shall we?" It was only then that she realized his fangs were once again sheathed, looking like slightly elongated canines rather than the elegant killing weapons they were. Of course, now she understood completely why some people willingly gave themselves over to vampires, let themselves be bitten over and over again even if immortality wasn't the end result.

Sherlock's lips on her throat, one hand stroking her breasts while the other caressed its way down her body, brought her back into the moment in the most pleasurable manner. She sighed and slid her hands up his arms, running her fingers through the crisp dark curls that framed his face so beautifully. He murmured appreciatively against her throat, then moved his head in order to mouth her collarbones and then lower, until finally his mouth made contact with her left breast. She gasped with continued pleasure as he tongued her hardening nub, suckling softly and then harder as her fingers clenched and tugged inadvertently at his hair. He groaned and nipped the tender flesh; she keened and stuttered his name as he lavished the same attention on her right breast.

She hadn't realized she'd opened her legs until she felt one large hand grasping her right thigh – the unbitten one – and tugging it over his hip as he slid his cock against her wet center. God, she was so ready for him, impatient to feel him inside her, and knew he felt the same even if he wasn't whispering those very words into her ear. She reached down between them and grasped his cock, loving the way it felt against her flesh but needing it inside her now. She positioned him, raised her hips, and moved her hand to press against his firm arse, gasping out, "Oh, yessss," as he slid deep into her.

**oOo**

It had been literally decades since Sherlock had indulged himself sexually with anyone other than another vampire; he'd nearly forgotten how intensely humans reacted to being bitten under such intimate circumstances, but the sight of Molly's plump thigh, so invitingly close, with the blood pulsing through her femoral artery, had been too tempting to resist.

Her reaction had fueled his growing lust, and the taste of her blood had nearly been his undoing…and hers. He gulped it down, far more than he should have during this first encounter between the two of them, and only the cool, slightly amused voice of his brother in the back of his mind had caused him to withdraw his fangs and lick the puncture marks to stop the bleeding. _/Really, brother, such enthusiasm is commendable, but do you really wish to drain her dry without having even fucked her first?/_

Her screams had helped to bring him back to reality, but even in his semi-feral state he'd recognized them as screams of pleasure rather than pain, and that primal part of himself had exulted in the sounds, harsh as they were. But his intellect was back in control, and he'd left the room at top speed, not bothering to cover himself as he knew Mycroft would have removed everyone from Sherlock's wing of the estate. Even if the servants had been around, he wouldn't have cared; modesty had never been something he'd been very concerned about. Thankfully for the tender sensibilities of the kitchen staff, however, he'd found that room deserted, poured out a generous tumbler of orange juice laced (liberally laced with vodka), and made it back to his bedroom (their bedroom, now) just as she was finally coming down from her orgasmic high.

She argued with him a bit over the orange juice, but drank it all once he'd impatiently explained the need…and offered her as close to an apology as he'd ever made to anyone in his life.

Now he was buried deep inside her, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, her sweet body moving beneath his while she moaned out her continuing pleasure, and it was all he could do to hold onto his control and keep from once again sinking his fangs into her body. The pulse in her neck was a siren call tempting him, but if he bit her again he might not be able to stop himself this time. No, he was going to have to learn impulse control all over again with this woman…but it was a lesson he was very, very willing to relearn.

Then Molly did something with her hips that wrenched a heavy groan from his throat. She giggled at his reaction, did it again, and Sherlock knew that if he didn't do something – quickly – that slipping self-control would vanish. Her pale throat with its throbbing pulse was becoming too much of a temptation as he came closer to his orgasm; before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled away from her, ignoring her protesting cries and the way she reached for him as he expertly flipped her onto her stomach and tugged her up to her knees. "You're testing me, Molly Hooper," he growled as she realized his intent and stopped fighting him, letting loose another of those appealing giggles as she widened her stance in order to give him enough room to reenter her. He reached around and grabbed her hair, fisting it and giving a light tug. She responded with a moan and he pressed back into her, quickly refinding the rhythm he'd interrupted.

He remained on his knees, still fisting her hair with one hand, the other gripping her hip as he pounded into her. She keened and arched her neck, once again exposing her throat as she approached her second orgasm; Sherlock responded by dropping his hold on her hair, grasping her other hip in his hand and watching hungrily as she lowered her head, hiding her face in the swatches of chestnut-colored hair he'd freed. He reached around and rubbed his thumb against her clit, feeling his fangs sliding free of their sheathes in spite of his intentions otherwise, and as she wailed out her orgasm he joined her with a throaty roar, hips stilling as he spilled into her.

Before collapsing onto the bed next to her, he once again fought to control the urge to bite her, to drink her blood, to possibly even mark her neck and show the world that she was his property. But he was above all that, he had always disdained those of his kind who couldn't seem to understand the value that humans had other than as a convenient food and breeding source. After reminding himself of that truth more than once he was finally able to push the primitive urges back into the darkest portion of his mind.

Something of his struggle must have shown in his face, because Molly was studying him, looking…not quite frightened, but certainly concerned. But when he lay down next to her and pulled her into his embrace, she went willingly, and he both hear and feel her heartbeat slowing to normal as they rested together.

Later he would explain to her the powerful urges she'd awoken in him, and start them both on a regimen of sex and biting in order to inoculate himself against temptation. He looked forward to it with much more enthusiasm than his brother would believe, were he to share his feelings with his elder sibling.

He snorted quietly at the thought. No, the only one who would be privy to his private thoughts, his feelings and desires, was the woman lying next to him.

He and Molly would not have the futures they'd each envisioned for themselves, but the one they would now share might turn out to be exactly what they needed.


End file.
